


All My Broken Things

by sweetheartdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Post-Stanford, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had never swung by to pick Sam up at Stanford. Instead, he runs into him almost a decade later while checking out a run-of-the-mill case in a small town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, my dear Abby! <3
> 
> You're so wonderful and awesome, the true queen of Wincest headcanons, and I love you very much. You can't even imagine how happy you&your friendship make me. No words can describe how glad I am that I know you! 
> 
> Wishing you all the best, babe.
> 
> ____________  
> Wincest, soft R, case!fic, Sam-never-left-Stanford!AU, set somewhere early to mid 2010-s (s7-s10, whatever tickles your fancy), bottom!Sam, angst.
> 
> Additional warnings for show-level of violence and alcohol abuse.
> 
> All the illustrations are by the author.

Dean pulled the yellow caution tape up and bent down to slide under it. The store next to a gas station was bustling with people. A couple of coroners were picking up the lifeless body of a young girl. The police were interviewing some guy who seemed dazed, confused and irrelevant. Probably just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Can I help you?” one of the policemen asked in a tired voice. Dean pulled a badge out of his suit pocket before brandishing it in the policeman’s face.

 

“Agent Page, FBI. What can you tell me about the vic?” he asked and pocketed the badge again as the policeman shrugged.

“Don’t seem like much of an anything. No signs of foul play. Maybe she had health issues, maybe it’s a party drug. Sorry to break it to ya, but you came all the way outta here for nothing, it seems.”

“Maybe,” Dean took a step to the side as the plastic bag with the body was carried past him. “This isn’t the first time someone just up and dropped ‘round here lately, though, is it?”

“No,” the man admitted. “Two other citizens had died. Heart attacks, horrible. But they were of elderly age, so that’s not something out of the blue. Like I said, agent, this is probably not even a case.”

It didn’t seem like much of a case, true. But if Bobby said it tickled him as off, Dean owed it to the old man’s intuition to at least see it through until he made sure there was nothing to dig at.

 

***

  
A hunter’s life is gritty and all-around unpleasant at times. It involves digging up graves and slicing off heads.

You’d think that interviewing the relatives of the victims wouldn’t be the worst thing, but Dean can never quite get used to it. Sam was always handy at these times, always there with words of comfort or a reassuring smile. Dean could never sell this honest empathy as well as Sam could. But Sam wasn’t here. Hadn’t been in many years.

“She was such a nice girl. Never... never got into any trouble. Always got straight A’s. Had a cheerleading scholarship waiting for her,” the curly-haired mother sniffled as Dean shifted on the chair uncomfortably. “But the doctors... the doctors told us that she suffered a heart attack. Do you think t-that’s— not the case?”

“Just following up,” Dean said, leaning forwards. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Patterson. Did Amanda have a history of heart trouble?”

“No... no, she was always healthy. But, you never know...” she wiped her eyes with a Kleenex as Dean looked at her sympathetically.

“Have you ever smelled sulfur in the house? Any coldspots?” Dean asked in a low voice.

Mrs. Patterson looked at him in confusion. “No. Never. Why?”

“Standard procedure. Don’t worry.”

A black-haired girl in a baggy sweater stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a towel. She was pale and big-eyed, looked like she didn't sleep enough. A retro camera was swung over her shoulder.

“I’ve washed the dishes. Do you need my help with anything else?” she asked, touching Mrs. Patterson’s shoulder.

“No, thank you. You’re a life saviour, Marina,” Mrs. Patterson shook her head as Marina glanced over at Dean.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Hey. I’m agent Page with FBI. You Amanda’s sister?”

“No, just a friend,” Marina straightened up and looked away, her face somber. “I’ve known her all my life, though. Agent, can I speak with you? Alone?”

Dean nodded, standing up, and followed Marina to the backyard surrounding the backyard. A huge oak tree grew there, a tire swing hung up on it swaying under the breeze. Marina ran her hand through her hair before talking again.

“I’ve just... I’ve just talked to her yesterday. Took an interview for a school project. And now she’s... gone. I can’t believe that. She was a cheerleader, agent. She never drank or took drugs. I don’t— I don’t think she could just die. I don’t know how but someone must’ve killed her.”

“Do you know if anyone might’ve wanted to hurt her?” Dean asked. He agreed, this thing sounded somewhat fishy.

“No. Everybody I know loved her! So much,” Marina pressed her hands to her chest. “It might’ve been someone outside of school.” She frowned. “Actually, Amanda was acting kind of strange lately, but she never told me what was wrong. I know she kept a diary and she probably wrote whatever troubled her down, but I don’t know where it is. She was really private about it and hid it well. Oh god.”

Marina squeaked somewhat desperately and hugged Dean tightly, burying her face in his chest. Dean patted her back somewhat awkwardly until she sniffled several times and pulled away, wiping her eyes. She apologised, which Dean hand-waved, his thoughts switching to the case again.

Okay, Dean had to get his hands on this diary. He asked Marina to show him to the bedroom and looked around. Nothing under the bed, nothing in the pillows or in any of the usual hiding places. He didn’t have a warrant to flip through all the victim’s possessions. That meant he had to break in later to conduct a more thorough search.

It took Dean several minutes to weight all the break-in options. Since the front of the house was watched by cameras, he couldn’t just walk into the front door. Seemed like the easiest way to get to the bedroom was to swing through the neighbours’ backyard, onto the Patterson’s lawn and into the window.

It was nearing one in the morning when Dean shimmied open the lock on the wired fence of the tiny neighbours’s house. He walked across the moonlit lawn slowly, and as he was nearing the fence, someone jumped at him from behind, dragging him down on the ground. Dean hissed, twisting around in his attacker’s arms and kicked upwards. The man groaned as he tried to pin Dean down. Didn’t seem like he was possessed or anything, just a fucking concerned citizen. No civilian could get a leg up on an experienced hunter, though.

Dean rolled the neighbourhood watch man around, straddling him, and gasped.

All the explanations he had stashed up evaporated from his mind. Everything did except for one name.

 _Sammy_.

“Dean?” Sam offered uncertainly, looking up at him from the grass. “What— what on earth you’re doing here?”

Dean grinned.

“You’re so out of practice,” he said with a laugh. “This picket fence life’s getting to ya.”

“Doesn’t really answer my question.”

“I’m working a case. What does it look like?”

“There’s no case here,” Sam shook his head.

“What about Amanda next door?"

“She isn’t a case. It’s tragic, but there’s nothing supernatural to it.”

“You just don’t wanna admit that there might be a case right under your nose and you missed it. Not in my backyard, huh?” Dean huffed as Sam squirmed and pushed him away, then scrambled on his feet.

“So you didn’t come to see me?” Sam eyed Dean suspiciously as he stood up, brushing his jeans off.

“Like hell. You made it clear you weren’t interested.”

“What I said didn’t mean you weren’t welcome to visit.”

“It sure as hell felt like it!”

“Ugh. Listen, it’s late and I’m freezing,” Sam gestured at his thin t-shirt and flimsy running pants. “If you want to come in and grab a beer or something, I don’t mind.”

“Geez, Sam, don’t trip over yourself while jumping in joy upon seeing my handsome face,” Dean said in a dry voice. Of course the drift between them was not only still there, if anything, it widened.

“You didn’t even know this is where I live, Dean,” Sam stated coldly. “Don’t pull the wounded brother card.”

Was the argument ‘I-missed-you-too-much-to-be-too-involved’ too lame? It probably was. Dean knew Bobby had someone keep tabs on Sam, that Sam was doing great, and that’s all he needed to know.

All he could bear to know after finding out Sam had a beautiful blonde girlfriend.

“Touché,” Dean finally grumbled. “Beer it is. I still need to get to the Pattersons', though.”

“What for?”

“Amanda kept a diary. I’m gonna find it.”

“Snooping around a teenage girl’s diary? Keeping it classy, I see,” Sam turned around to lead the way to the house.

“There might be clues in it, you idiot,” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Clues to what? It’s not a case.”

“It’s so a case. People in your town keep dropping from heart attacks, and you don’t even lift a finger to look into that?!”

“Dean, not everything’s a hunt!” Sam groaned as he turned the light on in the kitchen. “Remember Litchfield?”

“That was that one damn time! And you have to admit, these kids knew how to make a convincing poltergeist,” Dean waved his hands in the air. Sam looked through the fridge and pulled two bottles of beer out of it. He turned around to face Dean, handing the dark glass bottle over. Now that Dean was looking at Sam up close, he could see how much Sam had grown. His hair was longer now, and his eyes didn’t have the previous youthful shine anymore. The realisation that he hadn’t seen Sam in years hit him like a thousand bricks. To cope with it, Dean took a huge gulp of the beer.

Sam leaned on the counter awkwardly, clutching his bottle, as Dean looked around the kitchen. It was small, yet cozy — if you’re into the whole IKEA furniture thing. Most of the space was taken sturdy table with two chairs along with an armchair in the corner. The floor lamp next to the armchair shone on a shirt draped over the chair. Sewing supplies were lying next to it. Dean imagined a faceless blonde sitting there, curled up in the chair and fixing whatever Sam tore, smiling softly. A perfect american dream. The kind Sam had always wanted. He took another sip from the bottle, but the pang of jealousy didn’t go anywhere.

“So... how you’ve been?” Sam asked as Dean licked his lips and set his bottle aside.

“Same old. Hunting,” Dean shrugged. “First with Dad, then without.”

“Why?” Sam frowned as Dean looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“He’s dead.”

“Dad’s dead?!” Sam choked on his beer and coughed several times before speaking up again. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

“Thought Bobby’d tell you,” Dean said, voice tinged with guilt. Yeah, Dean should’ve called Sam, but he didn't. After the pyre he went on a binge that was like a month long, and he really didn’t want Sam to see or hear him like that. Afterwards, he was pretty sure Bobby must’ve told. Guess Bobby assumed the same.

“Nobody fucking told me!” Sam said in an angry voice. “How long?”

“A year and a half.”

“A year and... What the hell?!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have left. You’d be up with the latest news then. And don’t act so surprised. You know hunters don’t live long.”

“Fuck,” Sam breathed out. “He and I had our differences, but I never— I never wanted this.”

“I know,” Dean chewed on his lip. He looked over at Sam’s conflicted face. “Didn’t mean to spring it on you like that.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I just... kinda feel like shit ‘cause I hated the man’s guts at times. Especially when I left. And, well, now he’s dead and I’m not sure how to feel anymore.”

“Know you did,” Dean said shortly. “But, hey, you must at least have a couple good memories with him.”

“I’m drawing a blank, honest. He kinda managed to ruin even the good stuff somehow. Made my childhood real fun,” Sam said sharply. Usually Dean would jump right to John’s rescue, but the past years made him begin to see Sam’s point.

“Okay. Good talk,” Dean said, pushing the beer bottle away. He didn’t need this, the overwhelming guilt because of... well, everything at once. Letting Sam go back then, not calling him, thinking shit about his dead father. Guilt over Sam still talking about his youth so bitterly, in spite of Dean’s efforts. “Thinking I’m gonna head out.”

Sam just nodded.

Dean was already halfway through the door when Sam spoke again. “The good memories I do have are mostly with you,” he called out. “And usually they involved waiting for him to pass out and us...”

Dean turned around, shaking his head. “Oh no. Don’t talk about that. It’s long over.”

“But it happened,” Sam insisted. “And I just couldn’t let you leave thinking I was still pissed about that. And... what I said about us? I didn’t mean it. I said lots of shit I didn’t mean that night.”

Dean sighed heavily. “Didn’t we both?” he finally said, feeling like something that’s been nagging at his heart for about a decade finally disintegrated into dust. “Thanks for the beer and... yeah.”

Dean turned around to leave again, and Sam reached out to grasp his arm.

“If you really believe it’s a case, I believe you. That means that people I care about are in danger.”

Dean tried not to think about the blonde and failed desperately.

“So, uh, you need any help? For old times’ sake? I can’t just sit and do nothing when there’s evil right on my doorstep.”

Dean beamed. He thought he’d be more pissed. That it would take more grovelling and pleading for Sam for Dean to take him back, but one small smile, and Dean’s a fucking goner.

Sam’s smile hadn’t lost any of its shine over the years.

“Let’s go. You might wanna change, Pajama Sam,” Dean looked Sam over with a laugh, and for a second it felt almost like the good ol’ times.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was boosting Dean over the windowsill. The bedroom was dim, and, after helping Sam up, Dean shut the drapes and turned on his flashlight. Everything in the room was pink, fluffy and frilly, like they stumbled into a Disney Princess movie. At least the drapes were thick enough to be sure no one was gonna see them from outside.

“I’m so out of practice,” Sam admitted. He rummaged through the bookshelves, flipping books open and setting them back carefully. “We’ve barely started,” Dean huffed, looking in one of the table’s drawers. “Have you not hunted at all since you left?”

“I did a couple jobs here and there,” Sam shrugged and reached out to check behind the bedside table. “Then a couple of vamps almost snacked on me, and I dialed back on it a little. It’s tough without a partner.”

“You tell me,” Dean rolled his eyes. Sam let out a breathy ‘bingo’ and pulled a white journal from under the bedside cabinet. Dean leaned on the bed as Sam sat down on the floor next to it, and shone the light of the flashlight on the diary over Sam’s shoulder.

It was a disappointment. The neat, round handwriting has simply told about a crush on some guy called Steve. There was absolutely nothing fishy about it.

“Well. Maybe the case’s actually a bust. Sometimes people just die,” Dean finally admitted as Sam flipped to the last page. Sam glanced up, forcing Dean to realise their faces were all too close. He shifted away, trying his best to avoid the memories of screwing in victim’s bedrooms. Well, he probably wouldn’t be able to get it up in this bubblegum pack of a bedroom anyway.

“Earth to Dean,” Sam snapped his fingers in the air, causing Dean to jerk back to reality. “Listen, yeah, this doesn’t seem like much of anything. But we should look into the bodies, ‘kay? Maybe there are some similarities there.”

That was just grasping at straws. Dean didn’t want to leave just yet, though, so he nodded. Sam placed the diary back into its place.

“Good. I’ll make a couple calls to my friends at the morgue,” Sam stood up from the floor and walked over to open the window. Dean raised his eyebrows with a muttered ‘huh?’ which prompted Sam to laugh. “I’m a lawyer, Dean. You make all kinda friends in that line of work. Now let’s move before the Pattersons find us and ask what the hell an FBI agent and a lawyer are doing in their dead daughter’s room at three in the morning.”

“Sounds like a beginning for a bad joke. A fake FBI agent and a lawyer walk into a bar...” Dean hopped out of the window, the sweet sound of Sam’s laugh catching up with him as he jumped.

“Okay. I should get going,” Dean said, shoving his hands into his pockets. Sam was leading the way back to the house, his steps soft on the perfectly trimmed lawn. The hoodie he pulled on top of the shirt was soft, and Sam still looked ridiculously domestic and cozy. Maybe it was good it wasn’t a case. Maybe it was kinda good that Sam managed to settle.

“Going where?” Sam unlocked the door, the motion sensor light flickering on above his head, like a standard issue halo.

“Motel. Got a room.”

“Well, I have a couch if you wanna...” Sam lingered in the doorframe, tapping the frame with his long fingers. Dean shook his head.

“Nah. It’s cool.”

He didn’t need any extra temptation and silent suffering like some washed-out rom-com character, pining over someone he was never supposed to have in the first place. Not when Sam had this blonde thing who sewed up his shirts and probably cooked him breakfast and whatnot. Nope. Dean out.

“Oh. Well. Good night, then.”

“Night.”

Dean stood on the moonlit lawn in front of the closed door for a couple minutes more. Then he pulled one of the fake FBI business card out of his wallet, and slid it under the door. Dean turned around and walked back over to the Impala.

The car looked cold and lonely.

Dean could relate.

 

***

 

The diner was your run-of-the-mill place they used to frequent back in better days. The waitress knew Sam by name. He even had ‘the usual’ order (which consisted of a salad and black coffee, typical) and a usual booth in the corner. Dean ordered a coke and fries with a double burger and leaned back on the red cushioned seat. He winced when something flashed right outside. When he looked outta the window, the street was empty. Probably just a reflection from a car passing by.  
“So, uh, I’ve been researching between meetings,” Sam said, opening his laptop. He was wearing a fucking tailored pinstripe suit, that professional son of a bitch. Makin’ Dean feel underdressed in his plaid and jeans. Rude. “We don’t really have a lot to go on, though. I’ve been looking at things that can suck out the life energy — vamps, obviously, but they do it much more literally. Maybe a ghoul?”

“Nah, ghouls don’t work like that,” Dean shook his head. He shot a smile at the waitress who set his food in front of him.

“Maybe a malevolent spirit?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, picked up his fork and chewed on the salad, deep in thought.

“Well, maybe. Stopping hearts is in a spirit’s MO. What’s up with the plastic in the lungs thing, though?” Dean shoved several fries in his mouth.

“I asked my bud to take a closer look at it. From what I gather, it’s a semi-transparent black plastic of some kind.”

“Hmmm,” Dean drawled, tapping the table a couple times. “I’m drawing a blank here, dude.”

“Maybe we need to look at the guy again?” Sam huffed, propping his cheek against his hand. “I have no idea what’s his connection to the Mills could be.”

“The Mills?”

“Yeah, the elderly vics. They both died from heart attacks several weeks ago. Had a daughter, maybe she knows something. They seemed like a quiet family, though.”

“Have there been any violent deaths ‘round here lately, anyways? Something angry spirit-worthy?”

“No. This place is quiet. One of the reasons why I chose it to settle. Thought no cases would go down here. Should’ve known better, though. I guess you can’t really run from it,” Sam grew pensive.

“How’s the law thing treating you?” Dean asked in his best casual voice, scooping up another fry.

“It’s... not what I expected,” Sam conceded. “Y’know, I thought I’d be helping people. Most of it is just talking pretty and protecting some people who don’t even deserve it, but the firm you’re working for decided to take on. I’m kind of bitter about the whole thing. But, I guess that’s how it’s out in the real world. It ain’t black and white.”

“So what, hunting isn’t real enough for you?”

Sam stared at Dean for a longer time than he felt comfortable with.

“Never said that hunting was black and white, Dean,” he finally said before returning to his salad.

They finished the meal in silence. Dean was trying not to think about Sam’s words too hard but failed miserably. What else is new.

If only he could get Sam back into hunting... yeah, he felt like shit even for dreaming about it, but, c’mon, he could feel Sam wasn’t too happy. Dean knew his brother all too well. If only it could be the same again. Sam and him, out on the road, come whatever!

Dean shouldn’t even have been dreaming about it, setting himself up with this stupid hope for nothing.

Sam paid the check (uh-huh, Dean, no credit cards, I want to return to this place without worrying that real FBI are coming for me) and they headed out.

As Dean was stepping down the stairs, his insides twisted with sudden rush. Darkness came up to close off his vision. The last thing he felt were Sam’s arms wrapping around his torso and catching him before he could faceplant on the ground.

“Dean!”

And then there was a surge of images, like someone was rewinding old tape rapidly before his eyes.

_John, sprawled on the bed with a bottle still clutched in his hand. Dean tries to wipe off Sam’s tear-stained face. Sam’s five and he saw a scary shadow in the window as he was falling asleep._

_He still remembers not sleeping for the rest of the night, clutching a gun in his tiny fingers in case that shadow was something._

_Sam, seven, holding his hand, in another — a huge ice-cream. Sam got all A’s this year, and Dean had swiped a wallet from some guy on the street to treat him._

“Wake up, Dean! C’mon!”

His cheek vaguely stings, but it doesn’t stop him from falling deeper into the memories-filled rabbit hole.

_Dean, at fifteen, trying to diffuse another conflict between Sam and John, the I-just-want-to-be-normal thing. “Normal isn’t for us, Sam, please,” Dean pleads and Sam glares at him._

_“Thought you were on my side!” Sam spits, and Dean freezes._

“Please, Dean.”

There are fingers on his face.

_Sam’s sixteen, and Dean’s twenty. They have just found each other’s lips and never want to let go. Dean’s holding onto Sam’s skinny shoulders and pulling him close. Sam tastes better than anything Dean’s ever tasted. Even better than that one burgers with pickles he once ordered in a small Iowa town and wasn’t able to quite get over it since._

_Angels can keep their ambrosia, real heaven is on Sam’s lips and tongue._

Sam, Sam, Sammy, _recited like the only prayer he knows. Sam's words are his personal gospel, Sam's body — an altar. Sam is the only religion he'd ever be a martyr for._

_Sam’s eighteen and Dean feels like he’s not anything anymore, what’s with the fucking letter Sam’s has been hiding in his duffle and the phone that’s buzzing with texts and Dean just..._

And then he jerked awake, heaving and shaking in Sam’s arms. Judging by the familiar ceiling, Sam had dragged them both into the backseat of the Impala. Sam hung up from the 911 call as soon as he noticed that Dean’s awake. Sam’s eyes were open wide and looked just as scared as his five-year old self's had just been.

“What the fuck happened?” Dean managed through the chit-chatter of his teeth. He was freezing, like someone just forced him into a refrigerator with a penguin for a cuddle buddy.

“You had... some kind of seizure episode,” Sam said breathlessly and shook his hair out of his eyes. “It looked horrible. How are you feeling?”

“How do you think? Fucking peachy,” Dean rasped, trying to climb out of Sam’s lap. Sam held him in place, and Dean didn’t resist.

“Does this kind of thing happen to you often?” Sam asked, biting his lip with worry.

“Like hell! That’s the first time— ouch!” Dean pressed his hand to his chest which pierced with hot pain. He clawed at his shirt’s collar, pulling it aside. His chest was branded with a dot. Judging by Sam’s eyes expression, it was the same as the victims'. “So now they’re out to get me? Fucking awesome,” Dean hissed, sitting up. “Why couldn’t they finish the job, though?”

“I... I have no idea,” Sam shrugged somewhat awkwardly.

“Did you do something to wake me up?”

“I just called 911. And you should get checked out.”

“C’mon, Sam. I’m fine.”

“You were so not fine five minutes ago. A visit to a doctor ain’t gonna kill you, Dean,” Sam said in a strict voice. Dean didn’t have it in him to argue. Not when Sam was using that voice which had always compelled Dean to roll over and do whatever Sam wants.

The old, surly doctor did all kind of check-ups, concluded that Dean’s gonna live, and recommended bed rest (ha, good joke). Dean walked back into the waiting room. He shrugged at Sam who’s been waiting outside, his hands clasped tightly together. A sure way to tell he's nervous.

“I’m fine, see?” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Now, we should go talk to that Steve guy and the daughter. Better split to cover more ground. I’ll take the daughter, you check out the guy.”

“Dean, shouldn’t you, y’know, rest a little?” Sam asked carefully. Dean shook his head and led the way outside. Sam had brought the Impala over to the hospital's parking lot, and Dean approached her. He popped the trunk open, looking through the assorted weapons collection.

“Nah. Whatever this thing is, it wants me dead. So I’m kinda pressed to catch up to them before they catch up to me,” Dean picked a gun out of the trunk before pressing it into Sam’s hands. “Better hold onto this. Don’t let your guard down.”

“Dean...” Sam let out before tucking the gun into his waistband (Dean so did not stare at the strip of the skin that he flashed). “Just, you know, be careful.”

“Please. I’m always careful. That mostly goes for you,” Dean hesitated for second before adding, “bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam answered almost instinctively, and Dean saluted him.

According to Sam’s info, the Mills’ daughter still lived in their house right outside town. The house was a small cabin standing right on the edge of a gloomy forest. A small garden filled with an array of plants and a rough wooden fence surrounded it.

Dean parked the Impala in front of it and climbed the stairs before knocking at the door several times rapidly.

It swung open, and a familiar face peered at Dean. He had only managed through a split second of a shock before something heavy hit his head on the temple, cutting his “Marina?” question off mid-phrase.

Dean came to tied up to a pole in a basement. Damn, passing out twice in an hour must’ve been some kind of a personal record. He tugged at the restraints and scratched the floor beneath his fingertips. Tied up tightly, no shards of glass or nails he could use. Well, shit. He raised his head to look around.

The basement was ridiculously dusty, and it had the most cliche kind of witchy cauldron stewing on the fire. Duh. Of course he'd be stuck with a fucking witch who might've just been his least favourite thing to hunt. And there she stood herself, glaring at him.

“You’re gonna tell that buddy of yours that you’ve checked me out and are leaving,” Marina hissed, waving the phone in Dean’s face. He squinted at the sudden blue light piercing the darkness. “He’s been calling non-stop. It’s getting annoying.”

She pressed a rusty looking knife to Dean’s throat. Seemed like getting killed by it was gonna be real slow and painful.

“The hell you’ve been, Dean?” Sam asked angrily as soon as they got connected. “Listen, this Peter guy checks out alright. I don’t think it’s him. And, also, his hairbrush had gone missing lately, so I’m thinking witch? Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Dean shrugged as Marina gave him some serious stink-eye. “The daughter doesn’t have jack squat to do with the case either, I’m pretty sure.”

“Square one, then,” Sam answered with a sigh. “Meet up with me at the house?”

“Listen, Sam, I’m gonna leave this one to you. Got a whiff of a new case down east, in Beaufort. Real _funky_ town. Huge vamp nest. Can you handle this one by yourself?”

Sam swallowed thickly. Dean would’ve started praying by now if he believed in god or whatever.

“Yeah, Dean. I guess so. That is, if it’s even a case.”

“Yeah. See ya,” Dean said as Marina pressed the disconnect button. She raised the photocamera swinging around her neck and snapped a photo of him.

“I inherited this little cursed puppy from my foster mom. She told me never to use it, since it can only be used for murder. But, you know how it goes,” Marina shrugged. “Parents are a bore.”

“So what, killing people is your version of teenage rebellion? Listening to some Blood on the Dancefloor shit and crying into your pillow just don’t cut it anymore?” Dean spat, tugging on the ropes again. Nah, she tied him up good.

“My mom might’ve been a pacifist witch, but she was a shit person. And so was my father. They never gave a damn about me. Got drunk a lot, too." Marina leaned over and tugged several hair out of Dean’s head sharply. “I only managed to get one hair off your suit the first time. Guess that’s why it didn’t work.”

Dean gave her a silent dark glare.

“See, you need to develop a photo in a potion with the person’s hair, and whoa — they’re dead, a heart attack. A lot of bother, yeah, but no one will suspect violent death, not in a million years— except for you hunting scum. I thought you’d be suspicious of Peter after my hint. I didn’t count on you having a partner,” she threw the hair into the cauldron and stirred it aggressively. “I knew you were a hunter from the moment I heard you asking about cold spots. Mrs. Mills warned me you’d come. Normal children were scared of the Boogeyman, I was scared of you lot.”

“Well, since you’ve been paparazzin’ people left and right, you should’ve been. The hell did Amanda do to you? Fall in love with the boy you wanted? Oh boo hoo,” Dean scoffed. “This high school drama is the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever—“

“Oh no. I wanted _her_ ,” Marina said, shaking her head as she cracked open the camera. “And I wanted to be her. She was normal. Everything I never got to be, thanks to my witch parents! No, she had it all, and, yeah, she was my friend, but I was a charity case. A quirky sidekick, never a hero. Never a love interest. She fell in love with Peter and I ended her.”

“You killed the person you loved just because they loved someone else?” Dean frowned, gritting his teeth. “That ain’t love, you bitch! That’s just sick.”

“Like you’d know. Look at your face. You can get anyone you want,” Marina shook her head, opening the camera.

Dean chuckled humourlessly. “Oh, I know, trust me. But I’d never want them dead.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she said, dipping the film into the potion. Dean screamed, arching against the binds, his chest feeling like it caught fire.

_“Who’s texting you all the time? Your phone’s gonna explode soon.”_

_Dean rolls around onto his stomach on his bed (so-called his, they sleep together in all ways whenever John’s not around)._

_“Oh, just this girl,” Sam trails away. He continues to flip through his school binder: an impressive collection of worksheets from twelve different high schools. Dean raises his eyebrows, feeling a pang of jealousy._

_“What girl? Spill the beans.”_

_“I met her when we were on this hunt in Palo Alto, remember? You covered for me, since it coincided with Stanford’s open house, and I really wanted to go. Her name’s Jess and she wants to be pre-med. We exchanged numbers. What’s it to you?”_

_“You like her,” Dean says, and his insides feel cold. “You have a giant flaming crush on this Jess chick.”_

_Sam doesn’t protest immediately. Dean’s heart drops somewhere to the hotel’s basement._

_“So what?” he shrugs. “You repeatedly said we weren’t exclusive.”_

_Dean stammers._

_Yeah, but I just said that so I can hook up with girls whenever Dad gets suspicious._

_Yeah, but I didn’t mean that, Sammy._

_Yeah, I fucked them, but I didn’t text a single one._

_Yeah, I said that, but I was just scared. I don’t know how to do this relationship thing. I didn’t wanna hurt you._

_Yeah, but you were never supposed to like anyone else._

_“Sammy,” Dean says instead of all that, and it’s the most pathetic voice he’ve ever used in his life. “How— Why the hell—?”_

_Sam makes a face._

_“Well, I’m sorry if I have a friend outside of you, Dean. She’s lovely. And she tells me all about her life, all those small cute things. Books she’ve read, the puppy she saw today, all kinds of stuff. Normal stuff.”_

_“Here we go again,” Dean mutters quietly, but Sam overhears him anyway._

_“Yeah, here we go again! We never stopped going there!”_

_“I think this ship had kinda sailed, buddy,” Dean shakes his head. “We don’t get normal. So you can hang with your Jess all you want, but it’s never gonna lead anywhere. Who are you fooling, Sam? You’re just gonna get hurt, and it’s gonna be up to me to pick up the pieces, as always.”_

_Sam glares at Dean before picking his duffle up. He snatches a letter out of it and thrusts it into Dean’s face._

_“I got into Stanford. Full ride. And you just helped me make up my mind.”_

_Dean grasps the paper in his fingers, shell-shocked._

_“Mr. Winchester, we’re pleased to inform you...”_

_“You’re just gonna leave?” he asks, voice giving up by the end of the phrase._

_“Yes. I’m sorry, Dean...” Sam reaches out for his hand, but Dean jerks it away, giving Sam an angry stare._

_“Don’t you give me this ‘oh, I’m sorry’ crap. We don’t get to quit in this family, Sam. You don’t just get to up and leave! Someone has to save these people, and guess what? It’s us!” Dean snapped. "We have obligations, Sam."_

_“Now you just sound like Dad.”_

_“Shut your trap. I’m nothing like Dad.”_

_“Uh-huh. Sure,” Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Dean, just let me go. It'll be easier for both of us”_

_“No,” Dean says in a quiet voice. “Don’t you dare ask me to do that, man.”_

_“I have to. I’ve dreamt about this all my life.”_

_“Fine, you never liked hunting much. But you’re gonna walk out on me?! On us? Fuck you, Sam. I thought you were better than running away with your tail between your legs,” Dean curls up his fists, glaring at Sam. “You’re a coward.”_

_“Dean...” Sam sighs, and Dean almost hates himself for loving him this much. “Dean, I’m kind of walking away from us.”_

_Dean’s eyes flutter wide open and he stares at Sam wordlessly._

_“I can never be normal, not when... we’re a thing. It’s not normal, Dean. I’m not saying I regret it, but it’s pretty sick. You know that yourself. This, us, is really fucked up.”_

_The corners of Dean’s lips twitch, and he falls silent for several seconds._

_“Leave,” he finally says. “If that’s how you feel, leave. But don’t call me up when you get fucked over. In fact, don't call me up ever.”_

_Sam swallows thickly. His face is crushed, and his lower lip is trembling._

_“Thought we could still be brothers, Dean.”_

_“Maybe you should think less,” Dean glares at Sam and climbs out of the bed. He marches to the coat rack and pulls his own off the hook._

_“Where are you going?”_

_“Out.”_

_“Please, Dean— Dean, we can talk about this.”_

_“There's nothing to talk about. I’ve heard you.”_

_Dean slams the door. The sound's ear-splitting, like a gunshot._

Dean coughed, his chest gurgling and his left arm shooting up with pain. He curled up, the burn that was clawing at his stomach unbearable and spat out black plastic of photo film.

“Enjoy getting killed by your worst and best memories, hunter,” Marina smirked. “Nothing crushes a soul quite like it. Ice and fire. There’s plenty of old times lore talking about cameras stealing people’s souls. I suppose there’s some truth to it.”

“You... bitch,” Dean panted out, his vision full of the empty motel rooms and whiskey shots, sweaty bodies tangled in the sheets, faces of strangers in his bed. Anything, anything to forget Sam. And nothing helped. There were almost no happy memories to scrape up after that, all doom and gloom and gritty bars.

“You’re gonna try harder to insult me,” she said as the door to the basement burst open.

Dean smiled weakly. Sam did remember.

“How’s that for an insult?” Sam asked. A shot rang out, and then Sam rushed down, two stairs at a time. He dropped on his knees next to Dean.

“You ganked Sabrina, huh? Good job, Sammy,” Dean managed. Sam picked up the rusty knife and sliced through the ropes, then scooped Dean up in his arms. “Knew you still had it in you.”

“Tsss. Don’t talk,” Sam said, brushing Dean’s hair off of his forehead in quick, soft movements. He pulled him close and placed his hand on Dean's stubbled cheek, closed his eyes and leaned in. Dean froze in his arms before kissing back, not completely convinced this wasn’t a product of his imagination. If that was the final gift from his dying brain, he didn’t mind in the slightest.  
Dean coughed again and pulled away from the kiss, spitting more of the black powder of film out.

 

The burning subsided, and he breathed in full lungs of air.

“How did you know to do that— fuck, that’s what you did back in the car!” Dean gasped, raising his eyes at Sam. “What am I, fucking Sleeping Beauty? Do I look like I wanna dance with the gnomes?”

“Hey, it worked! Even though I didn’t think it would. I just... I felt desperate. I thought of never getting to do it again, and...” Sam looked away, his cheeks flushed bright pink. “Also, it was Snow White who danced with gnomes. Aurora had three fairy godmothers.”

  
“Well, ain’t you just a walking bucket of Disney trivia,” Dean laughed weakly. “Fucking love’s true kiss, huh? Never thought that would work. Guess it’s cause she killed people sorta kinda out of love, too,” he nodded over at the witch’s corpse.

“Good thing you had someone to kiss you, then,” Sam answered quietly, pressing his lips to Dean’s forehead. Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to have this moment.

If he ever got hit by that curse again, this second was definitely gonna flash before his eyes as a good one.

 

***

 

Dean parked the Impala in front of Sam’s house and waited for Sam to exit.

“Thanks for helping me out, man,” he said, rolling the window down to wave goodbye at Sam who shifted from one leg to the other in front of the car, looking uncomfortable.

“So, you’re leaving? Right now?” Sam asked, biting his lip.

“Well... no reason for me to hang ‘round, right?” Dean shrugged. “Call me if you get a poltergeist in your basement or some shit.”

“Don’t have a basement,” Sam stated awkwardly. “Um— gimme a hug before you go?”

Dean closed his eyes for a split second, a warm smile tugging at his lips, and got out of the car. He wrapped his arms around Sam’s torso tightly and pressed close. Sam always felt so warm, and being in his arms felt ridiculously familiar. Dean never got the cliche songs like ‘I fall into your arms, and I’m home”. Sam had been as close as it gets to this stuff, though — and they blew it. Dean didn’t want to just blame Sam for this, couldn’t blame him. Fucking each other and fucking what they had up had always been a collective efforts on their parts.

“I’m gonna give you a piece of advice,” Dean said, slapping Sam’s shoulder as he pulled away from the hug. Sam cocked his eyebrow in reply. “I know you probably feel bad about kissing me, but you shouldn’t. Don’t tell your chicka about the magic CPR. This is just gonna mess your relationship, and I don’t want that for you. I want you to be happy, with or without...”

“What chicka?” Sam repeated incredulously. “Dean, I don’t have anyone.”

Dean blinked his eyes wide open, staring up at Sam in surprise.

“But what about that... whatshername, the blonde?”

“Jess?” Sam’s shoulders slumped, and he looked away. “She was lovely. And we broke up.” He sighed heavily. “I broke it off, Dean. I loved her. But she didn’t understand my need to check every crook and nanny of the house every night and every morning. And the fact that I’ve kept a gun under my pillow after there was a series of violent burglaries in town. She tried her very best, but I scared her. I know that. And I didn't want her to live in fear.”

Dean gave Sam a (what he hoped was) comforting pat on his arm, lingering for a moment.

“But you were right, Dean. I can’t do normal. I know evil's out there, I know it might be out to get me. I never know what blast from the past can swing by my house and hurt someone I care about,” Sam pressed his knuckles to his forehead, his whole body shuddering. “I was just a kid when I left, Dean. I didn’t know any better.”

“It’s not your fault you were born a Winchester, Sam,” Dean said in a quiet voice. “You wanted to be like everyone else, and you deserved that much. It ain’t fair that you had to take all that shit, but life just ain’t fair. I get that.”

“Yeah,” Sam fell silent and crossed his arms on his chest, curling into himself. For a second he looked so innocent Dean felt bad turning back to the Impala and wrapping his hand around the cold door’s handle.

“Stay.”

Sam’s fingers clasped around Dean’s wrist tightly, like they always did. Like they did whenever Sam used to have a nightmare and reached out to Dean sleeping on the next bed over, like they did whenever Sam felt shy in front of new kids in one of his first schools, like they did when Dean picked him up after classes, and Sam talked non-stop about things that happened today.

Like they did when Sam rode him in a moonlit motel room, the low whimpers and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh the only sounds breaking the dead silence of the night.

“Please.”

Sam’s grip tightened even further, and Dean’s fingers slipped off from the handle.

Dean turned around and leaned in immediately, his free hand shooting up to wrap around the back of Sam’s neck tightly. Dean collided their lips together, the kiss so different from the previous soft one.

Heh, he could get used to that feeling of having to throw his head back when he kissed Sam now, what’s with him having a crazy growth spurt while Dean wasn’t around.

Sam looped his hand around Dean’s waist, pulling him to the house. They stumbled over the threshold, still wrapped in each other. Sam pushed off Dean’s leather jacket off his shoulders as Dean helped him do the same to his fancy suit's one. He kicked off his boots, still kissing Sam, fumbling and desperate. Didn’t want to lose ever a second of their time. They’ve wasted more than enough.

Dean’s eyes darted around the den (open floor plan, neat). He considered the options as Sam pulled away to tug his shirt off. They used to have plenty of acrobatic sex back in the days, bending each other into position that’d make Kamasutra’s creators jealous. Right now, though, all Dean wanted was to be close to Sam, just to touch him once more, and so instead of dragging Sam to the kitchen counter or a wall, Dean pushed him on the black leather sofa that creaked softly under their weight. So different from the hotel’s shitty mattresses that all but woke the dead up with the creaking whenever they fucked on them.

“Missed you,” Sam breathed out. Dean reached out, brushing his hand over Sam’s cheek.

“Yeah. Missed ya too, Sammy.”

Dean smiled, pulled his own shirt off and threw it away into the pile of clothing. He threw his leg over Sam’s hips and straddled him. Sam leaned up, kissing him again, wet and and messy. The skin to skin contact was pretty overwhelming by itself, especially since Dean hadn’t been laid in ages. He never thought that it’d happen with Sam again. The dreams always made him grasp for air and choke as he woke up and had to face Sam-less reality. Those were bittersweet, but Dean managed to forget how much better the reality was. All the little noises Sam made, the way his eyes fluttered half-lidded whenever Dean brushed his fingers over a sensitive spot. Fuck.

Sam trailed a hand to Dean’s jeans, palming him. Dean moaned, all but jerking awake from the thoughts that were plaguing his head. He couldn’t help it. Sam’s eyes had always made him a lovesick puppy.

“How many others were there?” Sam asked, twisting his hand again.

“Didn’t keep count,” Dean admitted, squeezing his eyes, his dick growing harder by the second. “None of them mattered.”

“‘Course they didn’t,” Sam let out, sounding somewhat smug. “It’s always been us, Dean.”

“Yeah. Way too much talking, chatty Katy. Not sure I can handle a heart to heart right now,” Dean laughed breathlessly, leaning in to unzip Sam’s suit’s pants. Sam immediately lifted his hips up to help him, like they were reciting a long-forgotten dance routine. Dean shoved the pants together along with the underwear. “You got lube?” he asked, mouth suddenly dry upon seeing Sam lying naked in front of him.

Sam grew up. The lanky teenager was neither teenager nor lanky anymore. Dean’s breath hitched as he looked Sam over. The smooth expanse of his toned chest, the muscled biceps, the fucking washboard abs (how much fucking time did Sam spend working out?).

The parted, wet pink lips. Long hair tossed around on the pillow.

His eyes were shining brightly.

Better than any dream or memory. Better than anything else in the whole fucking world.

“Yeah— bathroom, mirror cabinet, second shelf,” Sam nodded, his voice slightly higher than usual.

Dean didn’t really want to leave Sam ever for a short minute it was gonna take to go to the bathroom and back, but hobbled over there anyway. The mirror reflected his tousled hair and flushed face complete with a somewhat stupid grin that he just couldn’t seem to get off his lips. Dean hurried to open the cabinet and snatched the tube of lube out of there. He pulled the silver square of a condom out of the back pocket of his jeans as he walked back. Sam looked over at him with a light smirk on his lips.

“I see you came prepared,” Sam snorted.

“Boyscouts ain’t got nothing on me,” Dean stuck the foil between his teeth, tossed the lube on the sofa and quickly unzipped his jeans. He kicked them off, underwear following. Foreplay was good and all, but it didn’t compare to actually fucking Sam.

Sam spread his legs just enough for Dean to fit between them. One of them hung off the side of the sofa, another got pressed into its leather back. Dean considered asking Sam whether he wanted to move to the bedroom, but then Sam made an impatient little noise.

They have waited more than enough, Dean decided as he set the condom aside and slicked his fingers up. He trailed a finger around Sam’s hole before dipping in, two at once.

Sam was tight, but not as tight as Dean expected him to be.

“Been fingering yourself, huh?” Dean asked in a low voice, leaning forwards to Sam’s ear. Sam squeezed his eyes tightly and nodded. “Hope you’ve been thinking of me.”

“Who else?” Sam asked, and Dean couldn’t even give a fuck even if Sam was lying just to tell him what he wanted to hear. Sam’s words sent a shiver down his spine, and Dean scissored his fingers in reply. “Fuck, Dean.”

Dean had always prided himself on his skills in bed. Like, fucking people, eating food and killing evil were the three things he knew best.

And he actually knew Sam, knew all of his body unlike the one-night stands’. No matter how much time had passed, kissing that sensitive spot behind Sam’s ear still elicited the same high-pitched whine from him. Stroking the inseam of Sam’s thigh made him grind his heels against the mattress. Running his fingers through Sam’s hair gets Sam going in a weird way Dean could never quite understand, but he doesn’t mind the slightest. Sam’s hair has always been silky smooth and smelt of honey-infused shampoo.

Dean had always exactly what Sam needed. Maybe even better than Sam himself.

He added a third finger and bit down on his lip as he propped himself against the sofa on his free hand, fingers splayed next to Sam’s head. Sam groaned as Dean shifted his fingers, searching for Sam’s prostate.

Sam arched his back desperately, and Dean smirked.

“Please, Dean,” Sam stutters out, urgent and needy. “I need you so much. I need you now.”

Dean used to like teasing Sam and drawing it out, but there was no way in hell he was gonna wait for anything right then. He wouldn’t give a fuck even if the second coming started right outside Sam’s house window. Dean ripped the foil of the condom apart quickly and slid it over his cock. He held his breath as he lined it up with Sam’s hole. Sam shifted to hook his legs over Dean’s shoulders (not as comfortable as it used to be, what’s with Sam’s legs going for miles nowadays, but Dean adjusted), and Dean slowly thrusted in with a loud moan.

Sam was so damn tight around him, the warm heat driving Dean crazy.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean panted as he bottomed out, and Sam swallowed thickly. His eyes were open wide, his mouth agape and his chest heaving with breaths. Dean’s heart beat rapidly against his ribs — not the first time today, but the first time it actually felt pleasant.

It felt good. It felt right, finding Sam once again.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam whispered. “Fuck me.”

Didn’t have to ask him twice. Dean thrusted his hips, setting up the rhythm. Sam threw his head back, groaning loudly as his hard cock bobbed against his stomach. He rolled his hips as well, meeting Dean halfway.

At this point, the only two words left bouncing around Dean’s head were ‘fuck’ and Sam’s name.

Sam’s head jerked up and down, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and he let out another of those moans that had always made Dean’s toes curl. Dean’s hand scratched the sofa as Sam clenched around him tightly.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. The air smelt of sex, thick, musky scent. Finally, they didn’t have to hide from anyone, be it Dad, Bobby or anyone else. Didn’t have to listen for the sound of the door opening, either.

Just them. Like it was always meant to be.

Dean leaned in, kissing Sam without any of the previous finesse. Sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongue which Sam eagerly returned.

“Mark me,” Sam smiled wickedly, pulling away, and threw his head to the side. Dean mouthed along his neck until he found a spot he liked and bit down. He sucked on the skin alongside the low rumble of the groan caught in Sam’s throat, then swiped his tongue over the reddened spot.

Sam looked absolutely wrecked by this point, and Dean felt pretty much the same, his breathing heavy and his knees a little wobbly. The rhythm of his hips unrelenting, he slid his hand between their bodies and wrapped it around Sam’s cock firmly. Dean pumped it, jerky, abrupt movements. He swiped his thumb across the tip slowly, and Sam’s breathing hitched, a tell-tale sign that he was so damn close.

“Come for me, Sammy,” Dean whispered.

That was all Sam needed. He moaned, thrusting against Dean’s fingers before coming all over his stomach.

Sam’s orgasm pushed Dean over the edge, as well, and he came with a guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. As soon as Sam untangled himself from Dean, Dean’s legs gave in, and he collapsed on top of Sam.

“Well, that was real awesome,” Dean finally said after a moment of silence. “We really should do it again.”

Sam’s shoulders shook with breathless laughter, and he wrapped his arms around Dean, holding him close. “You betcha we should,” he said, shifting slightly. Dean pulled out and sat up to pull the condom off, the leather of the sofa sticking to all his body parts and his muscles sore. In spite of that, he felt more blissed out than he did in... well, in ages. Ever since Sam left.

Dean tied the condom up and tossed it in the general direction of the trashcan before flopping back on the sofa. It was pretty cramped, lying on the small sofa together, especially since Sam was much larger these days.

Dean didn’t care.

He did try to protest when Sam rolled around, pressing Dean’s back to his chest. Dean had always been the big spoon, after all. But Sam’s lips and nose pressed to the back of his head made him rethink arguing.

He felt sated. Happy.

Sam reached out to lace their fingers together tentatively, as if Dean was an easily spooked forest animal he was trying to tame. Dean sighed, squeezing back. He was much more into the sappy stuff than usual after an orgasm, since he felt so sleepy.

“Wanna stay like that forever, Dean,” Sam mumbled. “Just you and me. Stay with me, Dean. Please.” Dean made a quiet noise of acknowledgement.

Sam’s warmth and the blissful haze did their thing, and Dean started nodding off. He barely registered Sam walking off and returning back with a pillow and a blanket, but he sure as hell felt Sam’s lips pressed against his neck as he drifted to sleep.

 

***

 

Dean woke up first. It took him a couple of seconds to accept that Sam, softly breathing into his shoulder, wasn’t a dream or an illusion. No, it was real.

Yesterday’s high wore off, though, and Sam's words floated up in his mind.

_Stay with me, Dean. Please._

Maybe Sam didn’t enjoy being a lawyer, but he never once mentioned that he wanted to go back to hunting.

So what? Did Sam want Dean to settle down here with him? Dean felt a sharp pang of panic. Having hot, fumbling sex? Yeah. Becoming a civilian? No. He couldn’t do that even for Sam. He’d be useless outside of hunting, what’s with his GED and general lack of normal human experiences? And Sam wanted him to settle in this surburbia?

Dean slowly disentangled himself from Sam’s limbs and stood up, looking around for his clothes. The room was bright with morning sun, and Dean wished he felt more at peace here. Like he was a lover about to cook their significant one breakfast, not a one night stand sneaking out.

But what was the use prolonging it any further? Dean couldn’t ask Sam to uproot his life. He couldn’t stay either, not without growing to resent Sam and the apple pie gig. Sam was so ahead of him, and soon he’d understand they shared nothing in common. Nothing, except for hunting.

No, Sam staying here, and Dean leaving was for the best. It had worked out for them for years.

It was Sam’s place — it was Sam sewing a button curled up on the chair, it was Sam reading all those worn-out and puffy paperbacks, it was Sam dicing up salads on the counter.

 

And no matter how much Dean wanted to stay, he couldn’t see himself next to any of these ghosts of Sam.

Dean pulled his clothes back on quickly, and allowed himself one last lingering look at Sam’s peaceful sleeping face. He rummaged around in Sam’s clothes scattered around the floor and snatched the gun he gave Sam yesterday. Sam was a lawyer, and if the gun was ever traced to him, this would mean serious trouble. Dean walked over to the kitchen, picked up the condom left overnight and threw it in the trash angrily.

Dean picked a yellow legal pad and a pen that were lying on the kitchen counter next to a phone. They were covered with ugly doodles (Sam’s art skills hadn’t improved an iota over the years) and loopy letters. Call someone, return something, go somewhere. All things he’ve done without Dean messing shit up for him, and which he can continue to do after Dean’s long gone.

Dean flipped it open on a new sheet.

 

 

Dean placed the pad back and walked out. He didn’t look back, ‘cause that would just make him want to stay.

He shoved agent Page’s burner phone in the next dumpster he saw.

The Impala roared loudly as Dean left Sam’s town in the rearview window.

 

***

The local bar was smoky and filled with sounds of pool balls hitting against each other. Dean vaguely thought that he needed to go hustle sometime soon if he wanted to continue eating in the near future.

He didn’t even remember this one-horse town’s name. The last couple weeks have been a crazy whirlwind of chopping heads, shooting evil shit and salting and burning. All that driving around and changing motels really bit a chunk away from his finances, forcing him to play more and more.

It was like the Stanford-gate all over again, except now it was him who left, and, if anything, this made shit even worse. It was like getting a hit after years of walking ‘round clean, both feeling remorse and craving for more.

Dean chugged down the shot of cheap whiskey standing before him, climbed off the chair and stumbled to the group of guys over at the pool table. He threw an arm over one of them, slurring his words and asking them for a game. Humour the drunk guy, pretty please?

The cue lying in his hands was cool. Grounding. Good.

Dean blew several games before upping the bet, the last money he had landing on the table.

The night grew late as his fingers danced over the pool table.

The men grew pissed.

“Sorry, guys. Beginner’s luck, I guess,” Dean said with a smug smile as he sent the last ball down the table’s pocket. He swept up the dollars, standing up. The bar was silent. Eerily silent. Right, in the heat of the game they probably missed last call.

He turned around, still clutching the cue in his hand just to see one of the men board up the main exit from the bar with a chair. Even the owner-slash-bartender they seemed to be chatting okay in the beginning of the night was giving him a dark look.

“Huh. You’re a buncha of sore losers if I ever saw one,” Dean commented, gripping the cue tighter. It was about to get hot in here. Even considering all his skills and the fact that the men were all pretty buzzed, he still was severely outnumbered.

“He’s the bastard that’s been conning people all ‘round here!” one of them barked. “Stripped my cousin of, like, week worth of pay. We gonna shove this fucking cue up your ass, fucker. You gonna cough wood for a week, hear?”

“Whoa, sorry, but I'm just not all into that,” Dean laughed somewhat darkly as one of the men started to walk closer. “Y’know, you can always just sho—“

“Get him, boys!” the man shouted, charging forwards. The rest followed.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Dean dodged his punch and whipped the cue in the air, hitting the attacker’s head with it. Kicked another one in the stomach (heavy boot, gonna hurt like a bitch). Elbowed the third in the face, a sickening crunch resounding in the air. Things didn’t look too peachy, though. The only hope was that they’d see Dean as too dangerous an opponent, and wouldn’t want to get hurt just so that their buddies could finish the job.

The mob mentality didn’t allow room for such reasonable thought. Soon Dean was pressed to the green table, a bloodied broken wreck of a cue clutched in his fingers.

Dean definitely didn’t like the maniacal look the bearded man who was gripping his shirt was giving him. He didn’t want to escalate the situation any further, but it was already fucking escalated. Dean dropped the cue and jerked his hand into his pocket, pulling his Beretta out.

“Let me go and leave, bitch,” Dean growled, pressing the gun against the man’s ribs. “Not gonna ask twice.”

The bar fell into stunned silence.

Then the back door swung open. Somehow, Dean just knew who it was.

“I’d listen to him if I were you,” Sam said coldly, wiping his bloody cheek with his flannel’s sleeve. He was holding the knocked-out bartender by the collar of his shirt. Sam's hand relaxed, dropping him to the floor.

This was all the men needed to scatter like scared mice. The bar was empty in mere seconds.

Dean pocketed the gun, keeping his gaze level on Sam.

“Coulda dealt with them by myself,” Dean scoffed, walking over to the bar counter. Hey, free drinks, all you can carry — what a bargain. Not like he was gonna rob the place, just... have a little liberty with what was broken during the brawl and what wasn’t. He deserved a quality drink after this, on the house.

“Thought it’d be more fun doing it together,” Sam shrugged. He hopped onto one of the red bar stools, leaning on the glossy surface of the bar.

“What’s your poison, babe?” Dean drawled, causing Sam to chortle.

“If that’s your impression of a bartender, you need more practice. C’mon, grab the stuff you wanna and let’s hit the road. The cops are already on the way here, probably, and I’m sure you don’t wanna spend the night in jail.”

“Sam...” Dean set the bottle of some pricy tequila on the counter and looked up. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay.”

“No, see, what you left was a cryptic message with ‘I’m sorry’ repeated several times! The hell was I supposed to think, Dean?” Sam snapped, gesturing angrily. “And so what, I was just... supposed to get back to my job? Get back to my life? Knowing you were out there, alone and making stupid decisions?”

“I’ve been alone for years, if that slipped you. I’m fine!” Dean slammed the glossy tabletop with open palms. His previously banged-up nose decided to drip blood at exactly that time. Traitor.

“Yeah, it’s real obvious that you’re fine,” Sam scoffed. “Dean, you’re not okay. Just... admit to it. You’ve been out on the road, by yourself, for a year and a half!”

“I’m not the only one who’s doing it. Plenty of hunters handle this just fine. For years,” Dean shoved several small bottles of liquor into his pockets.

“No one said they were okay. Or happy. This is a lonely life, and...” Sam shook his head. “I’ve been lonely, too. I... I felt so alive, hunting with you. I’m not going to come out and say that hunting’s all I ever dreamed of. But you are.”

“You’re a fucking girl,” Dean bit his lip, looking away. “Go back to your Nicholas Sparks novel or whatever depths of sap hell that line crawled out from.”

“Don’t mind if I do. Always wanted to kiss somebody in the rain,” Sam mumbled, reaching out and gripping Dean’s shirt tightly. He tugged on it, forcing Dean to lean over the counter and kissed him softly. Dean gripped the edges of the countertop to regain balance.

It took a couple of seconds for Dean to answer, but he finally did, giving up and pressing closer.

“'here was no rain,” Dean mumbled against Sam’s lips.

“Thought about opening the tequila and pouring it over us, but you’d kill me for wasting the product. So... rain check on the rain?” Sam laughed lightly. Dean nodded.

“You bet I’d kill you. These go for three hundred dollars a pop,” he grinned before falling serious. “Sam, you really want back in?”

“Yeah. And you wanted me to come, too. You left a bloody trail the size of Amazon, and always checked into first hotels in the phonebook under obscure rock stars’ names. I’d catch up with you earlier, but you always ditched town before I got to you,” Sam sighed. “Don't get me wrong, I loved studying at Stanford. I even loved some parts of being a lawyer and...”

“And that means you should go home. I'm not gonna ask you to give up your whole life just for me,” Dean shook his head.

“Dean, will you shut up for one damn moment?” Sam huffed. Dean crossed his arms on his chest. “Good. You always think you know what I need better than I do. And it ends up with you trying to side-step awkward situations and just taking on this whole lonely martyr role. We can talk about stuff, y’know? And you don't have to always be miserable for my sake.”

“Well, I ain't letting you being miserable for mine, that's for sure.”

“Why does anyone has to be miserable?" Sam groaned. “Protecting the town felt good. Like I was actually finally making a difference again. I won't be miserable if I go with you. But I sure as hell be miserable if I let you go again. I choose you. Maybe it’s too little, too late, but that’s all I have to give you.”

Dean took a deep breath.

“Not too late,” he finally said. “It would never be too late with you.”

“Who’s the sap now, huh?”

“Shut up and take what you can get, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam reached out to punch Dean’s shoulder playfully.

The sirens outside were a wake-up call. Nothing better to end a day than a burst of adrenaline while slipping the police.

The motel room became so much less empty and cold once Sam set foot there.

 

***

 

Sam pulled  the yellow police tape up, and Dean walked underneath it. He flashed his badge at a policeman, Sam following.

“Name’s agent Jagger. This is my partner, agent Richards. What do you have for us?” Dean asked. The aging policeman nodded over at the body sprawled on the house’s floor.

“Beats me. Seems like the cause of the death is choking. There are bizarre marks all over her body, so, maybe, ritualistic killing? Hard to say,” he admitted. “I’ll let you boys have a look around. Ask me if you have any questions.”

“Will do,” Sam gave him a polite smile. “Djinn, probably. I heard of one in the area,” he added right after the policeman wondered away.

“How does choking fit into a Djinn’s MO?” Dean frowned, approaching the body. "Unless she really wished to be choked, if you know what I mean..."

"Dean, geez," Sam laughed, rolling his eyes."No idea about the choking yet. Gotta do some research,” Sam admitted, leaning to examine the intricate markings covering the vic’s body further. As soon as he finished with a look-over, a medical examiner swooped in, and they figured that they’ve got all the info they could so far.

The Impala was standing a couple blocks away. The night was pretty wet and cold, and Dean tugged on the lapels of his woolen coat, trying to get warmer. Sam cleared his throat as they walked down the street.

“Y’know, you calling me your partner? I know you don’t mean it in that way, but it still...”

“Shut up. Mean it in all the ways, Sammy,” Dean smirked, reaching out to brush his fingers over Sam’s palm. “You’re my partner.”

Sam gave Dean the sweetest smile — the kind of smile that had always made Dean’s heart do flip-flops.

The sky overhead rumbled.

A drop hit the pavement, blooming into a dark circle. Another drop. Dean picked up the pace to get to the car before the rain was gonna get any stronger. Sam followed, and as they reached level with the Impala, he grasped Dean by the wrist and pulled him close.

The rain poured down on their heads as they kissed.

“Nicholas Sparks ain’t got nothing on us.”

Fuck it. Dean was just gonna go ahead and admit it. Being in Sam’s arms was like coming home.


End file.
